With The Change Of the Season
by Can'tStopImagining
Summary: Delia tries to remember. Spoilers for 4.08.


**A/N:** I'm working on an AU chapter fic for these two, based on tonight's finale, but firstly I wanted to throw out a little one shot... this is my hopes for next season, I guess. I don't know about you guys, but I just love Delia Busby too much to let her go...

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Day number... well, she can't quite remember or work it out, but it's a Wednesday. A crisp, autumn Wednesday, in November (the calendar by the side of her bed tells her that much, if not the array of brown leaves decorating the branches outside her window). Yesterday, her mother remarked how warm it was for November. Delia nodded, but didn't know whether she agreed or not. She can't remember last November, nor the one before it, or the one before that. She can't remember what the weather was like last week, let alone last year. Still, it's Wednesday, and she remembers that, as she pulls back her sheets and steps out of bed. It's Wednesday and it's November, and she's at home, in Pembrokeshire, with her mother, and her father, and a chocolate Labrador whose name is still fuzzy to her. Her name is Delia. She sometimes forgets to dot the 'I' when she writes it in a rush. Or, forgot. She's not sure. Last time she tried to pick up a pen, she couldn't remember how to use it properly.

Delia stands at the window and stares out over the countryside she only half remembers from the day before. She thinks she remembers it from before, but differently. Staring at it for too long makes her tired, and she finds the safety of the bed again, sits down on the end, steadies herself.

Her mother will tell her off for being out of bed. She knows this, because it's something else she is able to retain. She can't remember the dog's name, or how to tie her shoe laces, or which school she went to, but she remembers her mother nagging her each day this week, fussing over her with food on a tray, and a huge jug of water, as she rearranges her pillows.

She can't remember how long she's been confined to her bed, but she also can't remember life outside of it. She makes it down to dinner sometimes – it's difficult, and takes up a lot of her energy, but it's worth it for the pleased expression on her father's face, the way her mother squeezes his arm – but she hasn't been outside. Women in starched, pressed uniforms come to check on her twice a week, and she never remembers their names, or their faces, but they seem pleased too. Or as pleased as they can be. Every week, they give her something to remember – four words, a phrase, a nursery rhyme – and though she tries her hardest, she never gets it completely right. It's exhausting, but she keeps at it, because she might not remember much about herself, but she knows she isn't the kind of person to give up, and one day she _will_ remember.

Delia gets back into bed, and she dozes. And she dreams of coffee mugs with lipstick stains and plates of cake and soft swing music playing in a dark room. She dreams of laughter and dancing, and things that make her heart race for reasons she can't explain. And there, in the centre of it all, is the same woman she's dreamt of for as many nights as she can remember, her face fuzzy, her voice too far away to distinguish. She wakes herself up with the effort of trying to get her mind to focus, and there's confused, exhausted tears wetting her cheeks, and she knows she must have been screaming in her sleep because her mother rushes to her side.

The day after the calendar changes, and it's December, a letter arrives.

She watches her mother hide it away, listens as she tells her father that it's for the best, that it'll only upset her. And she believes her, because she's not even sure she would remember how to read it if she tried, and what's the use of letters from people she can't remember?

The dreams stop and start and stop and start. It's a snowy night, somewhere around Christmas, when she finally asks her mother if she might know of the woman with the beautiful red hair, and even if she's exhausted, and her powers of perception aren't so good, she's sure she sees a glint of recognition in her mother's eyes before she gently shakes her head.

Cards arrive for her for Christmas – some names she recognises, but most she doesn't. She finds herself crying over jumbled handwriting and well-meaning messages from people who might as well be strangers. Tears smudge the ink, and then she's even angrier at herself.

By January, she's no longer having to be reminded of the dog (Ash)'s name every day, and she remembers what they did for Christmas, even if the names on the gift tags are still foreign, and she can't write to send any 'thank you' letters anyway. She makes it down to breakfast, lunch, _and_ dinner, but she daren't go outside.

The dreams are more vivid, but less frequent. One night, she wakes up softly crying, the image of bright, blue eyes and a beautiful, loving smile etched so deeply in her mind that she can't shake it all day. When she goes back to sleep, she's there again, and again, and again. But she still doesn't know who she is, or why it hurts so much to try to remember her.

January ends with rain. Lots and lots and lots of rain, but not the grey, horizontal rain they have in London – it's refreshing and she almost enjoys the sound of it pitter patter-ing on the roof. Delia doesn't know why she knows what the rain in London is like, until she asks her mother, and spends the rest of the night trying to picture the buildings, the people; anything.

She remembers check shirts and warm touches and laughing so hard she can't breathe. She remembers fish and chips, and marafat peas, and listening to waves crashing against a pier, and hours and hours of hushed conversations, but never any words.

It's exhausting, but she remembers. Even if the memories are faint, and fuzzy, and might only last the night, she remembers more than she's remembered in a long time.

In February, she wakes up with one word on her lips, and even though it still feels a little odd in her mouth – like maybe she hasn't said it in a while, but it's been there, just on the tip of her tongue, but unreachable – it's a relief to say it, and to know what it means, and to know, just for a moment, that she remembers.

When her mother comes in, tired looking and carrying her usual tray of food, it's all Delia can do not to just blurt it out, there and then. She waits, she eats her cereal, drinks her orange juice, and then, when she knows it's safe, and the word is real, that the memory is real and not something she dreamt, she turns to her mother.

"I want to see Patsy."


End file.
